


I Hear You Calling in the Dead of Night

by mycitruspocket



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Angst with a Happy Ending, First Kiss, Implied past drug use, Insomnia, M/M, Pre-Reichenbach, True Love
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-08-09
Updated: 2014-08-09
Packaged: 2018-02-12 11:20:57
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,231
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2107899
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mycitruspocket/pseuds/mycitruspocket
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>"On his way to Hyde Park Sherlock hopes it’s one of those nights where Lestrade is also there, sitting on his usual bench not knowing that Sherlock is watching him from the cover of the trees, never bold enough to reveal himself."</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Hear You Calling in the Dead of Night

**Author's Note:**

> Inspired by [Overjoyed](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=fK3fVJtFTh0) by Bastille and [this post](http://moonblossom.tumblr.com/post/92563259579/todays-challenge-listen-to-overjoyed-by-bastille) on tumblr from the lovely [moonblossom](http://archiveofourown.org/users/moonblossom).
> 
> Beta by the one and only [Erasmus_Jones](http://archiveofourown.org/users/Erasmus_Jones/pseuds/Erasmus_Jones).

It’s been a long day. No, actually it’s been a few long days and Greg can’t even remember the last time he’s slept for more than an hour or two. Now that the case is over he can finally rest, but instead he lies in bed and stares at the ceiling. His mind is still racing and images of Sherlock running round his mind and fragments of deductions playing over and over, he isn’t able to relax enough to finally close his eyes and sleep. Sherlock’s been a whirlwind of frantic energy and Greg has followed, as usual, and time runs fast when you’re in his wake. In an effort to calm his thoughts, Greg tries to concentrate on the words that had been pouring from his pretty mouth. There are always far too many to remember them all, but he likes focussing on the most brilliant parts of Sherlock’s deductions and keeps them in a corner of his mind where he goes to when he’s forgotten to smile for quite a while.

He hears Sherlock’s voice in his head, listens to Sherlock’s incredibly clever words which are mostly cold, unattached and clinical and lets them surround him.  Sometimes, when melancholy takes over like today, Greg remembers that there is also another side to Sherlock, the one you only get to know when you are alone with him. He thinks of the times Sherlock had asked for his help, not quite knowing which words to use, sounding vulnerable, lost and lonely. It always makes things worse because he finds himself wanting to hear those words more often, wanting to be there for Sherlock to make it all better.

He needs Sherlock in a way he’s never needed anyone else, even if most people think it’s only because of the cases. How little they know. They are solved faster with Sherlock’s help, and that’s important. They catch the bad guys before they can do any more harm, but it has nothing to do with how his career might benefit from working with Sherlock. It’s more the thrill of being the only one Sherlock listens to sometimes, the only one that Sherlock wants to work with and who actually _can_ work successfully with him. It makes him feel special, that he has the power to be able to give Sherlock something he needs. Because Sherlock needs Greg too , also not only for the cases. He needs him to be the one he can always come back to, the only other constant in his life besides his brother. He can always ask Greg for help when there’s nowhere else to turn, because he’s the only one that has seen him at his lowest and didn’t run screaming.

They need each other, Greg knows that, but he’s not sure if Sherlock knows too. Whether Sherlock is even able to admit to himself that he needs another person. In the end, the words are all they have. Words about cases, Sherlock’s cries for help, and insults that often go over his head. Greg doesn’t mind the latter because Sherlock is like a cat that just demands attention, and he just can’t resist giving it to him. He once had a cat who scratched forcefully at the front door every time it wanted to go outside, Sherlock happens to scratch at his soul. He replaced the door when he moved out of that flat, but he can’t replace his soul, it’s marked for a lifetime. Greg just can’t help but drinking in Sherlock’s words like he’s dying of thirst, even if they are insulting, it doesn’t matter because he knows it’s all they have.

Often he wishes that there could be more between he and Sherlock, and then he dreams about the touches, because those are very rare. Sherlock doesn’t like to be touched, but sometimes there are brushes of fingers when Greg hands him a coffee, shoulders bumping together when they walk side by side, or their knees touch when they sit in a cab together. Greg is relatively sure that Sherlock either doesn’t notice those incidents or simply ignores them; he always seems so busy thinking when it happens. Greg on the other hand cherishes them immensely; he enjoys every faint touch while it lasts because he doesn’t know how long he will have to endure until the next.  He hopes it doesn’t show and that Sherlock never realises it because he doesn’t want it to stop.

It’ll probably always be like that. Sherlock will take what he needs and Greg will give it to him, wanting nothing but words to hoard and remember in return. It’s not very healthy, he’s well aware, but there’s nothing he can change about it anymore. They have always been like this, it’s how they work. Sherlock wouldn’t want it any other way; otherwise he would have consumed everything Greg has to offer a long time ago.

If Greg starts thinking like this sleep definitely won’t find him. He’s been here often enough and he knows it’s hopeless to try. So he gets up, pulls on some random jeans and a jacket before he heads outside into the night. There are a couple of destinations he seeks out on nights like this, and he always trusts his feet to take him wherever he might find answers.

*

Sherlock hasn’t got a regular sleeping pattern, especially when he works on important cases. Afterwards, when he’s done, he usually crashes for a whole day when he eventually allows his brilliant brain to take the rest it needs. Not today though, his mind won’t shut up and when he closes his eyes he sees Lestrade. A phenomenon that occurs frequently and he never knows quite what to do about it. It’s mostly annoying because he knows now is the time to sleep, before the next case demands all his attention. On the other hand it’s comforting, but still too distracting to allow him to fall asleep.

There is the way Lestrade listens to him for example; it’s different from anyone else. Other people are often fascinated, jealous or angry when he makes his deductions. John is the fascinated type, he makes notes so he can blog about how brilliant Sherlock has been and he tells him so in public to show his obvious admiration. Anderson is a jealous one, he’s amazed by Sherlock’s brilliance but doesn’t know how to show it so he tries to play it down in front of others. Guilty suspects are always angry, which is to be expected.

Lestrade is in a league of his own, though. He seldom writes notes because he listens so closely to what he says and picks out the most important parts and remembers them. He’s one of those who learn best when they hear something said out loud, and he always seems to enjoy Sherlock’s long speeches on a completely different level to any of the others. It motivates Sherlock like nothing else, knowing that Lestrade is completely focussed on his words, even if he doesn’t get every detail. It’s thrilling to capture his attention like that, no notebook between them, just his words and Lestrade’s eyes on him. It’s a joy to see his words sinking in like that, he can see them crawling beneath his skin and the urge to touch them there is tempting. Sometimes he can’t resist and does just that. Always nonchalant, disguising it as coincidence, when all he really wants to do is touch Lestrade’s temple as he imagines that’s where his words go after they leave his mouth, it’s where they are safe. He’s never felt the desire to touch anyone else like this, not ever.

Sherlock also craves Lestrade’s reaction after he solves one of his cases for him, ranging anywhere from an amused look to a distinctive frown. When he is very lucky, Sherlock gets a genuinely happy smile and that’s his favourite. Lestrade has the most honest smile he’s ever seen. Sherlock knows he is safe when Greg smiles like that, he has known since the first time he saw it when he woke up in a hospital with only fragmented memories from the preceding days. Lestrade has been there - smiling.  Sherlock doesn’t know if he likes the frown, after so many years he still hasn’t figured it out, which only intrigues him further. Lestrade frowns when Sherlock says mean things, which he seldom does on purpose because most of the time he just speaks his mind. It’s why the frown perplexes him the most, seeming to come out of the blue as far as he is concerned. Sherlock wonders if he will ever manage to work it out.

He opens his eyes and the frowning Inspector vanishes, his bedroom is dark and cold, and not for the first time he wonders if Lestrade feels lonely too. How would it feel to share the loneliness? Would it go away then?

Relationships are not Sherlock’s area, he’s got no data to go on and is afraid of doing his research because honestly, who would want that with him? Living with John has made him much more confident though, and it has shown him that it’s not impossible to actually live with him. There is a thought in his mind that has existed since the day he met Lestrade, that he would be the one worth beginning his foray into researching this foreign subject of romantic relationships. It has never been more than a simple thought, however, it is one that demands attention now and then. Like tonight.

Sherlock gets out of bed instantly, dresses himself, fetches his coat and scarf from the rack in the hallway and makes his way to the one place where he always goes when this thought comes hunting him. On his way to Hyde Park he hopes it’s one of those nights where Lestrade is also there, sitting on his usual bench not knowing that Sherlock is watching him from the cover of the trees, never bold enough to reveal himself. It’s oddly comforting to watch him, it calms Sherlock, not only because Lestrade has obviously very similar sleeping disorders. When Sherlock doesn’t find him here, he’s probably on Westminster Bridge, watching the city lights playing on the water’s rippling surface, but he can’t watch him properly there without risking being caught. Sometimes Lestrade just stays home and watches telly until the sun comes up, and then Sherlock can do nothing more than look at the flickering blue tinged lights through the curtains drawn over the windows. But tonight feels like a Hyde Park night to him.

He quickens his pace until he reaches his favoured hiding spot in the shadows of the trees and slows down again when he can make out Lestrade’s slumped figure sitting on the bench. With his elbows resting on his knees and his hands folded he looks in Sherlock’s direction, as if he knows he’s there, like he’s waiting for him. Lestrade looks as lonely as Sherlock feels, probably even more so, and that’s why he won’t hide this time. He thought he could hide forever, live in the shadows for as long as he wants, it’s just that he doesn’t want it anymore. Stepping out into the light cast by the park lamps is much easier than he thought it would be; everything lights up even more when he sees Lestrade’s expression change from desperate longing to happy and speechless astonishment.

Sherlock doesn’t stop, he can’t stop now and just before he reaches him Lestrade stands up, closing the distance between them with one big step and hugs him close. Without warning Sherlock is surrounded with warmth and the familiar scent of the sandalwood aftershave Lestrade has used since the first day they met, here on this very spot. He wishes he could remember more of that day, even if most of it would be very painful memories, but he’s sure Lestrade remembers more than enough for the both of them.

A stubbled cheek presses against his smooth one and this time Sherlock can’t stop himself and brushes his closed lips against Lestrade’s temple. He can feel his words there, safely stored to be remembered whenever they are needed. Right now, they don’t need any words to remember because they will both treasure this night in a special place of their hearts, even after Sherlock’s hair has gone completely grey.

Lestrade sighs, barely audible, before he pulls his face away so he can look at him and Sherlock is mesmerised by the emotions he sees welling up in the deep brown eyes. Moments later Lestrade moves in again and suddenly they are kissing, soft and slow. It feels like flying.

They don’t need to tell the other how much they need this, how much they need each other. The moment is perfect, silent as it is, as they kiss in the dead of night. The only words that are whispered later are their good nights when they are curled up in Lestrade’s bed, finally able to find their much needed rest together.

 

\---

_This is their spot in Hyde Park![ChasingRiver](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com) suggested this lovely location near Albion Gate for this fic and isn't it perfect? If you want to see more pictures, check out [her post on tumblr](http://chasingriversong.tumblr.com/post/95474334192/some-pictures-of-albion-gate-for-my-citrus-pocket), and if you like Holmescest, read her fic [Hyde Park](http://archiveofourown.org/works/322620) that also takes place there._


End file.
